the proper person to go with her and point the way.  This was the secret of Mattie’s letter to Aunt Betsy, and the warmth with which she welcomed her to that tenement on the Bowery, over a clothing store, and so small that it is not strange Aunt Betsy wondered where they all slept, never dreaming of the many devices known to city housekeepers, who can change a handsome parlor into a kitchen or sleeping-room, and vice versa, with little or no trouble.  But she found it out at last, lifting her hands in speechless amazement, when, as the hour for retiring came, what she imagined the parlor bookcase was converted into a comfortable bed, on which her first night in New York was passed in comfort if not in perfect quiet.

The next day had been set apart by Mattie for showing their guest the city and possibly calling on Mrs. Wilford; but the poor old lady, unused to travel and excitement, was too tired to venture out, seeing from the window more than she had seen in all her life before, and coming to the conclusion that New York must contain “a sight of folks,” judging from the crowds who passed that way and the glimpses she caught of other crowds in the streets beyond.  Still in some things she was disappointed.  New York was not so grand as she had imagined it to be—­not as grand as Helen’s letters would imply; and she “didn’t suppose everybody lived upstairs and kept men’s clothes to sell.”  The boarders, too, troubled her.  They were well enough, it is true, but they were neither fine ladies nor gentlemen, such as Wilford and Katy; and Aunt Betsy, while receiving every attention which Mrs. Tubbs could give her, was guilty of wishing herself back in the clean, bright kitchen at home, where the windows looked out upon woods and fields instead of that never-ceasing rush which made her dizzy and faint.  On the whole she was as nearly homesick as she well could be, and so when Mattie asked if she would like to go out that evening, she caught eagerly at the idea, as it involved a change, and again the opera came before her mind, in spite of her attempts to thrust it away.

“Did ’Tilda know if Katy went to the opera now?  Did she s’pose she would be there to-night?  Was it far to the show house?  What was the price—­and was it a very wicked place?”

To all these queries Mattie answered readily.  She presumed Katy would be there, as it was a new opera.  It was not so very far.  Distance in the city was nothing, and it was not a wicked place, but over the price Mattie faltered.  Tickets for Aunt Betsy, herself and Tom, who of course must go with them, would cost more than her father had to give.  The theatre was preferable, as that came within their means, and she suggested Laura Keene’s; but from that Aunt Betsy recoiled as from Pandemonium itself.

Catch her at a theatre—­her, a deacon’s sister, looked up to for a sample, and who run once for vice-president of the Sewing Society in Silverton!  It was too terrible to think of.  But the opera seemed different.  Helen went there; it could not be very wrong, particularly as the tickets were so high that bad folks could not go, and taking out her purse Aunt Betsy counted its contents carefully, holding the bills thoughtfully for a moment, while she seemed to be balancing between what she knew was safe and what she feared might be wrong, at least in the eyes of Silverton.